Devils And Gods
by Cozzybob
Summary: When Raphael throws both Jimmy and Cas into Hell, it's up to Dean to return to the place of his nightmares, and save them both. Meanwhile, Sam has problems of his own... Post-s6ep11, eventual Dean/Cas slash.
1. Chapter 1, Part A

**Devils And Gods**

**Warnings: **blasphemy (God-as-Chuck, and all the things that come with it), swearing, violence, violent imagery, gore, slash for later chapters (both f/f and m/m), as well as het

**Pairings**: I'm intending Dean/Castiel. Other than that, it's being played by ear so far.

**Spoilers:** Everything up to season 6, episode 11 (the mid-season finale).

**Notes:** Title taken from the Tori Amos song of the same name. This is my first Supernatural fic, and I wasn't actually going to post it... at least not yet. But a friend of mine convinced me otherwise, so here we are! Please let me know what you think. I'm rather nervous. Part 2 of the first chapter will be posted tomorrow.

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Two figures of light pierce through the afternoon skies, speeding towards one another with all the wrath of the heavens behind them. As they collide, lighting crackles in white-hot arcs through the clouds, stirring angrily. A storm seems inevitable.

A sharp thunderclap rolls over the mountains below. People stare upward, mouths gaped and their eyes sparking in wonder, but in the sky, a shriek is released from one of the figures, something alien and high-pitched that makes them clap their hands over their ears in pain.

The shriek is cut-off abruptly. A lifeless body tumbles towards the Earth, its speedy decent whistling in the atmosphere before it slams into the ground, and the impact bursts a mushroom cloud of flame, smoke and uprooted shrapnel that roars across the landscape, temporarily blocking the afternoon sun.

The people scream, fleeing, and those closest are silenced abruptly as they're swallowed by the growing fireball.

The other figure, dark and hovering in the sky, frowns sharply at the destruction below, its face deformed with sorrow.

"I'm sorry, brother," the figure mutters. "But you should have known it would end this way."

It vanishes with the flutter of unseen wings.

.

Sammy's curled up in Bobby's guest room under a huge pile of blankets. He drags in deep, reassuring breaths, but otherwise hasn't twitched since Death had shoved his ragged soul back where it was supposed to be.

Leaning against the door frame, Dean can't help but perceive him as the tiny little boy he used to patch up, train, and take care of during all the times that Dad hadn't been there. Sammy had been so tiny, back then. Not helpless-Winchesters never were-but _tiny_, and in need of reassurance, brotherly hugs, and all the things that Dean had sneered were too girly for his tastes.

In that little boy's place is the too-tall, too-strong, too-big man that Sam had grown into after he'd set off college, their father's harsh words echoing at his back like a pulsing wound. But maybe Sam had been better off in the long run. He's big enough now to defend himself during all the times that Dean has failed to be the big dependable brother the world expects him to be.

And Sam must be getting used to that.

Death had left some hours ago with one last terrifying glance at Dean. He'd mentioned souls again, his black eyes glimmering with a strange urgency, and Dean shivered, averting his gaze away. Death clearly found him intriguing-fucking _Death_, which was somehow even worse than the angels-and wasn't that just the story of his life.

And Death had left in the whisper of a cool breeze. Bobby stared at the space he'd vanished and then looked to Dean, the older man's face drawn pale, clutching a rifle, his breath stifled in the back of his throat. It was the same look Bobby had worn when the angels started interfering with their lives, when Sam went demon blood junkie, when Lucifer walked the Earth, when Armageddon seemed to be upon them, and everything-_everything-_about the Winchester family was revealed to be preordained in effort to fuck over humanity.

Uncomfortable though it'd been in parts, Dean longs for the days when their biggest worry was finding Dad and dragging Sam away from the fiery inferno of Jess's bleeding corpse fused to the ceiling. But even that had been planned from the start. It's enough to make him sick, and lately, he can't stop thinking about it.

Bobby trudges down the hall, clapping a hand on Dean's back. "No change?"

"Nah," Dean says, and turns to give Bobby a shrug. "Maybe it's for the best. He hasn't slept for over a year. Not since-"

Dean wince, then, abruptly taken by the mental image of both his brothers tumbling down into the Pit, and he knows this isn't over yet. Sammy's safe now-as safe as he'll ever be with his soul so thoroughly destroyed, Death had to build a wall in his mind to block the memories of Hell resurfacing-but Dean will most likely die trying to bring back Adam. That's how it works, how it's always worked (whether or not he wants to begrudge his grandfather the same thing), and maybe he won't come back this time. But when they're safe... when they're _finally_ safe, and Dean's job is finished... well, he's starting to think of it like an extended vacation. Death, that is, assuming he actually stays that way this time. There's really no point without Lisa and Ben anymore, and he's a shit hunter now. It'd be nice to see Ellen and Jo again. If he goes up instead of down. Christ, he's crossing his fingers for Heaven.

It probably doesn't matter-Cas would kick his ass six ways from Sunday if Dean gave up like that (did it before), and Heaven doesn't sound like much of a party anyway these days. Point being, his life fucking sucks no matter which way he looks at it.

But at least Sammy's safe.

Bobby, oblivious to Dean's thoughts, is looking through the doorway at Sam's scruffy mop peaking from just below the covers. Bobby's eyes seem to glimmer, and then he sighs something that sounds far older than it should. "Kid'll be fine, Dean, and anyway, there's nothing you can do about it right now. You should rest. Been a helluva day."

With that, Dean looks at Bobby again, noting the bruises mottling his neck and a suspicious lump on the side of his head. Sam 2.0 had done a number on their surrogate father. "Speaking of which. What the hell was that patricide shit about?"

Bobby shrugs at him, though his eyes darken at the memory. "You know that bit. Had to do with keeping the soul out. Don't know where the hell he'd got the notion-"

"He got it from someone else. Had to, he came up with it too quickly." Dean slides out of the doorway and away from Sam. Bobby follows him, and they both head down the stairs and towards the front of the house. "He must have summoned someone for advice. Crowley's dead, I doubt he'd deal with Meg, and Cas would never... so that leaves..." Dean's eyes widen, and he pauses in his tracks. "Balthazar? Shit."

Bobby's confused for a moment, and then he recalls Sam's summary of the events some weeks ago. "That sonuvabitch trading the weapons of Heaven for souls?"

"Yeah. Things didn't go very smoothly for any of us last time around. It doesn't make sense he'd help Sam."

"Unless Sam threatened him," Bobby mutters, rubbing at the bruises on his neck again.

"Or Balthazar thought it might be amusing. He seems the type. Bit like Gabriel that way. Or Crowley."

"Damn," Bobby mutters, and finds an overstuffed chair. He collapses into it with a weary groan, swiping a hand across his forehead. "S'what we need, someone _else_ with a shitload power finding an interest in us."

"I know," Dean mutters, thinking of Death again. He thumps down in the chair next to Bobby and grabs the remote from the TV stand. He sets his dirty boots on the coffee table, and Bobby glares at him. Dean rolls his eyes, and for a moment, the air is warm with family again.

But then he turns on the television.

Castiel's battered and bruised body is being pulled on a gurney into an ambulance truck. Dean feels himself become disembodied with shock as he watches it happen on screen, unable to breathe. Beside him, Bobby curses.

"-Jimmy Novak, suspected for a series of murders in Pontiac, Illinois. He's the sole survivor so far from this area, and police are saying his previous allegations and this attack are completely unrelated. His family has been contacted, Mark."

It's a news cast, and Mark Browning, the hour's anchorman, gives the young brunette sympathetic eyes.

"Wow. How bad is the damage, Sofie?"

The reporter stands before an ambulance driving Castiel (and Jimmy) to a hospital. The text on the bottom of the screen reads: DUPREE DEVASTATED BY LARGE METEOR STRIKE.

Marie gestures to the apparent destruction surrounding her. "Very bad, Mark. It looks like most of the city has been leveled, and the death toll is still rising, especially in this area where the city was hit directly. Dispatchers have been called from as far as Montana, and many victims from surrounding areas are being transported between Gettysburg and Mobridge, where there are better means of care. The hospital here is still standing, but-"

Dean is out of the chair and marching towards the weapon's cabinet before Bobby can say a word. The older man walks after him, begging reason. "Dean, wait a minute. You can't just go marching in without a plan-"

He ignores Bobby's protests as pulls a rifle from the cabinet and grabs a large box of shells, his eyes skimming over the other guns and lingering on an old machete. "Raphael must know he's there, Bobby. It's a huge bullseye on Cas's back, even without the cops, and you heard her. Jimmy's family's involved now, which means they're flying in. If nothing else, Cas would want us to protect them. I've gotta go _now_."

"What about Sam?"

He pauses, glancing at Bobby and then the stairs to Sam's room, but only for a moment. Then he's swiping his duffel from the couch and adding the box of shells to his collection. In the bag's contents, something shiny catches his eye, and Dean pulls out the angel-killing dagger etched in Enochian that Cas had given him after turning human last year. He'd said it used to be Uriel's sword, and the angel's face had been creased with pain at the remembered betrayal and subsequent death of his closest brother. Cas had given it to Dean because he hated the sight of it.

But Dean likes the feeling of it in his palm. Uriel's sword is warm to the touch and it vibrates slightly on contact, as if itching to tear into the grace of another angel. He wonders if that's the last remnant of Uriel left behind, bloodthirsty with forgotten rage, or the weapon itself fitting entirely too comfortably in the hunter's grip.

It doesn't matter either way.

"You take care of Sam," Dean says, zipping the duffel bag again. "I'll take care of Cas."

"Be careful, boy." Bobby's got that wobbly look on his face, like he's trying his best to keep the stiff upper lip, but is failing miserably out of worry for the safety of his two would-be sons. "You come back, or Sam an' I'll kick yer ass."

Dean mock-salutes, the screen door banging like gunshot behind him. He feels Bobby's eyes follow him in the Impala until he drives off out of sight. He tries not to think about Sam, or Adam, or anything but Cas.

Then he slips in some Zeppelin on the tape deck, and tries not to think about anything.


	2. Chapter 1, Part B

The roads into Dupree are flooded with medical personnel, firetrucks, contractors, frantic family members, and well-meaning good Samaritans. According to the radio, there's a road block on nearly every highway, so Dean doesn't bother trying to avoid it and heads straight into the traffic jam. It takes him over an hour to clear it, and he drums his fingers on the steering wheel in growing agitation. As he finally reaches the road block, an officer stops him and knocks on the window.

The worry must be scrawled all over his face, because the officer asks, "Looking for family?"

Dean nods, but can't bring himself to say the words. It isn't family. It's _Cas_.

"All the victims have been flown out of the city, most of them towards Gettysberg. You're better off heading back that way. Check with the Gettysburg Memorial Hospital." When Dean looks stubborn, the officer shakes his head. "The FBI will be here soon, kid, and they're planning on locking up the city. Huge investigation. I'm telling you, you're better off turning around."

And so he does, bitching mentally that he'd already come from that direction and it was a waste of time. He should have called ahead checked things out-he'd never make a mistake like that if he weren't rusty-but his worry and exhaustion blinds him. Dean hits the pedal, speeding eastbound.

He makes the drive in an hour and a half, even with all the traffic clearly on the same path and purpose as he. When he finds the hospital, he veers into a parking space with the whine of skidding tires and reaches into the duffle for Uriel's sword. He hides it under his clothes and runs for the hospital doors, greeting the woman at the front desk with a frantic look. "My brother, he was in Gettysberg, they said he'd be here-I need to-I need-" Most of it is exaggerated for the purpose of getting to Cas, but the rest of him knows his performance isn't up to good acting. His mind is coming up with all sorts of horrible scenarios, not the least of which is Cas's untimely death at the hands of the warring angels desperate to reclaim Heaven for themselves. Cas has tried repeatedly to warn him of this, he remembers that now... and Dean didn't listen, didn't even care beyond-fuck it all, but retrospection is a bitch.

The woman holds up a hand and smiles calmly at him.

"What is his name, sir?"

"Jimmy Novak. They said-"

The woman's face flickers with recognition, and she bobs her head quickly, pointing at the elevator. "Oh, _him_!" The bizarre celebrity status of Castiel's 'miraculous survival' at the heart of the so-called meteor impact sends a sharp stab of worry into him. Well, it's either that or Jimmy's outstanding alleged murder case, and wow, Dean had forgotten the poor bastard took the blame for that mess with the demons in Pontiac two years ago. It won't be easy smuggling him out of here, because if it isn't the staff, it's the FBI. They'll be crawling all over Cas soon enough, and Dean doesn't feel up to busting an angel out of prison.

"Yes, his wife and daughter just arrived," the woman says. "Head up to ICU, it's on the fourth floor."

He doesn't wait to say thanks, making an only half-acted mad dash for the elevators. The cab plays what someone had once declared soothing music while he watches the numbers go upward in a slow and painful manner, and Dean quickly decides right then and there that this must be the same kind of music played in Hell, in sections even worse than the one he'd visited. By the time the door opens again, Dean's ready to rip out his own hair, but refrains and instead approaches another desk and ask for more directions. Another woman points him towards room 409, and it's there, with a police officer guarding the doorway and in a large room with six beds separated by flimsy blue curtains, that Dean finds Amelia and Claire sitting in ugly orange plastic chairs, staring at Cas's-at Jimmy's-face, Amelia holding tightly to her husband's hand.

At the sound of Dean's approach, both of them turn around. Claire is wide-eyed.

Amelia marches up to him with a furious, wet glare, jabbing a finger at his face. "You! What happened? Why is he-"

Dean quickly shushes her, looking around at the other patients, but they're all either sleeping or comatose. He shuts the door behind him, ignoring the protect from the police officer, and holds up his hands at the two women. "I don't know what's going on any more than you do. Last I saw Cas, he said he was losing the war in Heaven."

"War...? What do you mean, war? That doesn't even-"

Dean shakes his head, impatient. He looks at Cas's-no, _Jimmy's _frail body, bruised and pale against the off-white sheets, and he grimaces. Cas is dressed in a hideous flora blue hospital gown, an IV stuck into one arm and pumping what looks like a sedative into his body. "We don't have time for this," Dean says. "He's an easy target here. We need to move him quickly before someone-"

"Ah. I'm a little late to the party, I see."

Dean spins on his heel and pulls Uriel's sword from his back.

Balthazar distances himself, his eyes widening a fraction when he sees the blade. "Where did you get that? Morals don't usually-ah, yes. Sword of Michael. Naturally."

Dean is confused for a moment. Sam had used them too; they had both Anna's and Uriel's swords between them, and Cas had more that he carried with him, taken from other angels that he'd personally slain. "This isn't-" But then Dean shakes his head, and slides in front of Amelia and Claire. The younger girl is pale, clutching her father's slack hand with her eyes downcast, as if in prayer. He wants to tell her that it won't help-it never does, and God certainly doesn't give a damn-but Cas had always answered, hadn't he? Maybe he'd answer Jimmy's daughter, too.

Balthazar takes that tiny shred of hope and sneers at it with disgust. "We _are_ a sad bunch, aren't we?" His eyes land on Castiel's comatose body, and then Dean sees something linger there-something that looks suspiciously like worry, maybe even grief. "I must admit, it isn't looking very good," the angel says quietly.

Dean glares at him and gestures with the sword. "What the hell do you want?"

"To help."

"Bullshit," he scoffs. "Was that you helping when you put the idea of killing Bobby in Sam's head?"

"That's different. That was your soulless abomination of a brother. _This_ is Castiel."

And somehow, the look in his eyes tells Dean everything he needs to know, even if he is furious about Sam. Everything between Balthazar and Cas screams _history_ in some form or another, and it's out of respect to Cas that Dean doesn't spear the arrogant prick in the gut with Uriel's sword. "It's not fucking different. You think you'd win brownie points from Cas for trying to ruin my brother? Newsflash: it doesn't work that way."

Balthazar rolls his eyes, and the way he does it reminds Dean of Gabriel, which only serves to enhance the hatred even more. "Newsflash: your brother is already ruined." The angel mock-frowns, and pretends to ponder it, one finger tapping at his chin. "I wonder how long a year and three months is in Hell?"

The truth of it rips him to the core, and Dean takes a step forward to vent this knowledge on Balthazar's corpse, Cas be damned. But Amelia seizes his arm and tugs him back again. She stands in front of Dean, glaring at the angel is if she could destroy him by will-power alone.

"Hold it! Who are you? Do you know what's wrong with my husband?"

Surprisingly, Balthazar frowns at her, and it's genuinely concerned this time. "Yes," he says, and glances at Claire, who still silent and clutching at her father's hand. "But the little one should leave the room, because it isn't pleasant."

Claire looks at him, at her mother, and then back at her father's gaunt face. She shakes her head, stiffening her little body into a wall of determination.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it to all of us," Amelia grits. She grasps her daughters hand, and Dean stands at her other side, firming himself back into a defensive position between them and Balthazar. Not that Balthazar seems interested in harming the girls, but Dean wouldn't trust him as far as he could fucking throw him, which isn't very far at all.

"My name is Balthazar," the angel tells Amelia. "Castiel and I are brothers in arms. I care for him very deeply, and-"

Dean growls at him. "Get to the point."

"If you would stop interrupting," Balthazar sighs, looking put-upon. "I don't suppose you remember Cas going mortal last year?"

Amelia and Claire both look startled, but Dean just nods grimly. "Your point?"

"Vessels aren't meant to contain two mortal souls," Balthazar says, and he glances briefly over at Castiel again with another sharp frown. "It's supposed to be an _angel_ and a mortal. The angel suppresses the mortal soul, putting it to sleep. That's the way it works. But when an angel goes mortal too, things get complicated. The angel no longer has the power to suppress the mortal soul, or keep it separated from their own consciousness. The body can no longer contain them both safely. So there was this theory going around that he and Jimmy Novak..."

Amelia is pale, clutching Claire's hand a bit too tightly. The little girl winces and asks in a hesitant voice, "What happened to Dad?"

Balthazar gives them his back, glancing at the other patients with an odd slump to his shoulders. "There was a rumor that he and Jimmy... fused together. Became one."

"_What?" _Dean can't take this lightly, because if it's true, then it's all his damn fault, and he's tired of being goddamn _guilty_. "That's impossible! That's-"

"Bit nuts, yes," Balathazar says, and turns back again to nod at the star of the hour passed out on the hospital bed. "But it worked for Raphael, didn't it? Must be a ring of truth in there somewhere if he's-"

Amelia is furious. "What did that son of a bitch do to my husband?" Dean and Claire both look at her in shock, but the woman isn't deterred. She steps closer to Balthazar, fists balled, and growls, "What's going _on_?"

The angel holds up his hands. "Look, I only know what I hear through the grape vine, yeah? Word is, Raphael figured he couldn't take Cas one on one-not with our Father playing favorites, or the Winchester's interferences-so he went through that Jimmy fellow. Raphael called in some favors, pulled a few strings, and..." Again, Balthazar is hesitant, and his mouth grimaces like it's got a bad taste in his mouth.

Time is running out, and Dean's surprised they haven't already been interrupted by staff, police, or worse. "Spit it out, we don't have time for-"

"He cast Jimmy into Hell."

All three of them don't know how to react to that. Dean stumbles backward, as if dealt a blow, and Amelia's eyes begin to glisten with tears. Eerily, Jimmy's daughter Claire doesn't seem to react at all. She just stands there and stares at Balthazar as if he'd spoken Pig Latin.

"I'm sorry," the angel says, and he still sounds genuine. "I think the theory was if they cast Jimmy out, Cas would be pulled down with him due to their prior connection. And it seems like that's what happened. Neither of them are in that body, not quite."

It's Claire that speaks up, after a moment. "What do you mean?"

"Cas is still tied to the vessel. I can sense a resonance of him, but not Jimmy Novak. It's like... it's like a string. As if he'd secured a piece of his grace to the vessel, before he descended."

"Why would he do that?"

It's Dean who asks the question, but he already knows the answer. Balthazar shrugs, and flicks a wrist at the hunter's obvious stupidity. "Why else? To find his way back home, of course."

The angel finally crosses the room towards them again, ignoring Dean's threatening wave of the sword in his hand. They both know he won't use it, not if Balthazar plans on helping Cas and Jimmy, and it sounds like he does. Dean has no choice but to go with it; he's out of options, and it's _Cas_.

When he approaches the bed, Balthazar gently brushes Jimmy Novak's bangs, and bends to kiss the absent man's forehead. Kissing the last remnants of Cas.

Dean has to look away, a little disturbed, but Amelia does not. Tears are now streaming down her face with absent fury, and she's obviously restraining herself from pulling Balthazar away from her husband with great difficulty. "So what now? How do we get them back?"

"Follow the yellow brick road, perhaps?"

Without warning, Balthazar dives his hand into Jimmy's body the same way Cas had done at least three times this year, feeling for the mortal souls they contained.

Dean waits for the screaming to start. It never comes.


	3. Chapter 2

I'm looking for a beta for this fic, so if you're willing, drop me a line.

Also, I forgot to warn for cliche'd soul-bonding... but you don't mind, do you? Dean & Cas, baby. So canon. :D

This chap, we get our first glimpse of Sam. He'll be featured more in the next part...

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Balthazar pulls what looks like a thin cord of light from Jimmy's body, and holds it carefully with two hands as he studies it. The body in the bed doesn't even stir, and considering the amount of pain Dean had seen others react by that same move, it only serves to make the entire affair even further disturbing.

"Not a strong hold," Balthazar says. "This isn't good. He must be in the deepest levels."

"Does that mean-"

"It's hard to say, but years could have passed for them already." The angel pushes the glowing thread back into Jimmy's body, and looks at Dean. "There's only one way to save him. Take off your shirt."

"_What? _No, we don't have time for this. We have to get out of here. Raphael could-"

"The old prick's already done the damage, he won't be back. Castiel and his allies lost the war when he fell, Dean. But you can bring him back."

"What-"

"Count your blessings. For once, Heaven or Hell doesn't give a damn about you, yeah? This is to our advantage. Take off your bloody shirt."

Dean's not sure why he's fighting it, other than that this probably won't fair well for him at all. He glances at Amelia and Claire, who both carry a look that says this is so far above their heads, they aren't fully processing what's going on, anymore. "Take us to Bobby's place. We'll do it there."

"We don't-"

"Do it," Dean growls.

Balthazar rolls his eyes, and removes the IV from Jimmy's arm before lifting the man's body from the bed. He sprawls in Balthazar's grip, limbs flailing in every direction, but the angel's expression is almost tender as he pulls the body against his chest, probably thinking of Cas. Jimmy's head rolls and then comes to rest on Balthazar's shoulder... it seems strangely intimate, which makes Amelia scowl and Dean look away again.

Claire touches Balthazar's hand, and the angel grins down at her. "Hold on, sweet pea."

They hear the beating of wings, and then the world shifts. From one blink to the next, they're standing in Bobby's living room, and Dean hears the older hunter fall backwards with a loud curse.

"What the-? Some warning would be nice. _Christ!_"

Dean's trying very hard not to think about his baby abandoned back in the parking lot in Gettysburg. Somehow, he doubts Balthazar thought of the courtesy.

The angel marches up Bobby's stairs as if he has every right to explore the place, and knows exactly where he's going. Dean's not surprised to follow him into the guest room, where Sammy's still curled up under a pile of sheets. It'd be just like the bastard to have been spying on them while Sammy'd been trying to kill Bobby, and Dean, a precious little girl...

Balthazar carefully lays Jimmy's body to rest next to Sam, smoothing a hand down his arm before turning to them again.

"Now that the family reunion has commenced, take off your bloody shirt, Dean!"

Dean can feel the heat of Bobby's scowl behind him, and Amelia and Claire are off to the side, peaking through the doorway at both Jimmy and Sam on the bed. Amelia opens her mouth to ask a question, but before she can spit it out, Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his shirt off. Every eye darts a look at the faded red scar of the hand print on Dean's shoulder.

"Let me guess, some angel mojo bond thing? You think this is any better than-"

"Yes," Balthazar says, and crosses the room towards Dean, hovering his own hand over Castiel's mark without touching it. "You shouldn't mock what you don't understand. That mark was seared into your soul, and it's one of the most permanent things in creation. If it weren't for the sigils carved in your ribs, you two could find each other deaf and blind in a snow storm."

Dean's massively uncomfortable at this knowledge, and shifts away from Balthazar's look, crossing the room instead to be at Cas's-Jimmy's-side. His fingers find their way to Jimmy's right hand without meaning to, thinking of Cas, and he mutters, "What's your point?"

"You can find him faster than any of us. Both of them, most likely."

"You mean..." Dean inhales sharply, and shakes his head. "I'm not going back down there. You can't-"

"Dean," Bobby starts, stepping towards him, and Dean shakes his head again.

"You don't know what you're asking. I'm not going to just-"

Balthazar interrupts him with a glare. "We don't have a choice now, do we? If you want to save him-"

"Of course I do. But what about the sigils? Didn't you just say-" The angel lays a hand on Dean's chest, and a strange warmth fills him for a moment, before it fades away. It's not unpleasant. Dean jerks back anyway, clutching his chest. "What did you just-"

"I solved our problem. The sigils are gone."

"But now any bastard can find us!" But even as he says it, Dean can feel it. That warmth hasn't gone away. It lays there quietly deep inside of him, as if waiting for something. And it _pulls_ slightly, very gently, towards Cas. Towards Jimmy.

Balthazar tosses a shrug like this subject is boring him, and he'd rather be squirming in an orgy about now. "The sigils were suppressing the bond. But now that it's restored, you can find him and-"

"No," Dean says, and he's freaking the fuck out now. "You don't know what you're asking. I'm not going back to Hell, not even for Cas. I can't. I-"

Claire grips at her mother's hand, pale and furious. "My dad is down there. He never asked for this."

Dean looks at her, and immediately he's reminded of Ben, the look of horror in his eyes when Dean had shoved him violently away, running from Lisa and his happily-ever-after for fear of killing them both. Life as a hunter was never domesticated, no matter how much Sam had wanted it for them. But Jimmy Novak hadn't asked for it. He hadn't known what he was getting into when he consented his body to Cas, and unlike the Winchesters, he wasn't raised to deal with the consequences. It's Adam all over again, an innocent manipulated into a war of bratty superpowers who'd just as soon as wipe the Earth of humanity with an afterthought because Daddy's gone and apparently never coming back.

Dean's life had gone to serious shit over the last few years because of it, and Cas seemed to be the one person in all of creation who never let him down. But no matter how highly Cas thought of him, no matter how much Jimmy needed him, Dean wasn't God, and he couldn't make the impossible happen. He couldn't fix Heaven and Earth, and he couldn't save the world time and time again without permanent damage to both himself and those around him. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't strong enough or stubborn enough, and he certainly wasn't smart enough. He wasn't brave enough to descend back into the realm of his nightmares, no matter how much both Cas and Jimmy deserved to be saved. He couldn't do it. He just-

Claire pleads at Dean with bright blue eyes.

They glisten with a sharp, painful agony, and the look reminds him of Cas peering through Jimmy's eyes, bereft without his faith but for his faith in Dean. Dean knows he never stood a chance against it, but damn it all, he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't want that kind of responsibility anymore.

Dean sighs and casts a glance at his still-sleeping brother. It's disturbing that Sam still hasn't woken, not even with the commotion going on around him, but Dean will worry about it later. Later, after saving Cas, Jimmy, and maybe even Adam. From Hell. Right.

What would Dad do?

"Fine. We're looking for Cas, right? Well, first thing's first. What am I getting myself into?"

.

The world is soft and warm and Sam feels as though he is floating. There is no pain-and he can't remember pain, but he knows in the familiar ache of _being_ that there had been. There had been for such a long, long time, and he feels so _old_ (and yet so very, very young) when he thinks of this, though he can't recall anything else. Curious as a new born set out to explore the world again, Sam swipes at the memories he can sense he's lost. It's like swiping at a curtain just out of his reach, and then there's a voice telling him sternly, _Don't pick at the wall, Sam. _

And he doesn't, because the hazy feeling of cold-_so very very cold-_slips like a whisper through the curtain, and he shivers, burrowing further into the soft warmth and feeling of _safe_ that surrounds him.

There's a body at his side, warm and comforting as the breaths ease in and out in constant motion. Sam moves into it, curling an arm around the waist, before sliding his hand up a flat chest. That's when he remembers that Jess's chest is far from flat.

And _then_ he remembers that Jess is dead.

Sam groans softly, and moving further into the blankets. The feeling of _safe_ slips away, replaced by _sadness._ He remembers trying to kill Bobby. He wants to die.

He only notices the other voices in the room discussing something heatedly, until they stop talking. A calloused hand rests on the arm he'd slipped around the waist of the body beside him, squeezing it very gently, and Sam would know that hand anywhere.

"Dean," he mutters, refusing to open his eyes. "M'tired. Lemme sleep."

His brother's voice is choked with worry, and... something else. "Is it... is it really you, Sammy?"

Sam sighs and lets his eyes slide open. His vision is a little blurry around the edges, but he finds Dean easily enough. His brother looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept in days. "Yeah," Sam says, trying not to think about much of anything beyond _this_. "Dean, you look like crap."

Dean rubs the back of his neck, and looks over his shoulder. They have company. Balthazar, Bobby... Jimmy's wife? Amelia, was it? And the girl, Claire.

"Dean, what's-" Sam sits up slowly, and finally takes in the other body beside him. "Cas...? What's wrong with Cas?" Cas, in a floral hospital gown looking utterly helpless, and wow is that disturbing. "Okay, can someone tell me what's going on?"

He can't escape the weird feeling that he's had some wild drunken fling with Dean's favorite angel, and now everyone (including Jimmy's family, apparently?) are on some kind of intervention kick. It makes Sam flush scarlet, which only deepens when he then considers that even though he and Cas would most likely never do anything of the sort, he's rather surprised Dean hasn't.

"Oh, God."

"Sam are you-"

"I'm fine, I-"

"Wow, you look like a beet, dude." Dean palms Sam's forehead, worry-lines seemingly permanent between his brows. "No fever... are you sure you're-"

"Dean, quit it." Sam slaps the hand away, his face burning from the embarrassment. "I'm fine."

Castiel is bruised, pale and still as death beside him, but breathing evenly. It hurts to look at him. He'd always seemed so... _untouchable_ before. Even bleeding under Alastair's grip, even human and sore from the banishing sigil he'd carved into his own chest.

He looks like he can be killed with a touch, and Sam turns away, sickened by it. "What's going _on?_"

Balthazar finally loses his patience. "When you people want to get to business, let me know. Now if you'll pardon me, I've got to-"

"Stay. We're doing this right now. Sam, I can't explain, but the longer we waste time, the more Cas and Jimmy suffer. Just promise me that whatever you see, you let it happen. You let it happen, okay?"

"Dean-" Sam's worried. Dean's got that Winchester martyr stance about him, all foolish determination and good intentions which never lead anywhere promising. "Dean, you're not going to do anything stupid are you?"

"I am," his brother admits, with surprising honesty. It throws Sam off, and he isn't sure how to react to that. "But I can't explain right now. Just promise me."

"I-"

"Promise."

"Okay, I promise. Now tell me-"

He hears Balthazar growl, and there are two fingers on his forehead. At a whisper, there's a sensation of approaching oblivion, and Sam has no choice but to welcome it greedily.

.

His brother slumps on the bed like a sack of bones, and Dean slaps Balthazar's hand, shouting inches from his face. "What did you do that for?"

"We're wasting time and so are you! Sit down."

"Dude, you can't just-"

"Sit. Down."

The room trembles at the force of Balthazar's anger, which is surprising because for all of the angel's slimy actions, he's never displayed any emotion other than smug grins. At the other end of the room, Dean sees Amelia grab for her daughter's hand again, muttering a prayer. Bobby just looks ill from exhaustion.

Dean thumps his ass down at Jimmy's side, and tries not to look nervous. He's _really_ beginning to hate fucking angels.

Calming down immediately, Balthazar touches Jimmy's forehead gently, almost reverently, and then hovers his hand over Castiel's mark on Dean's shoulder. With a stern look, the angel says, "This is going to hurt."

Dean braces himself. "Any special instructions?"

There's a shrug to answer him. "I don't bloody well know! This has never been done before, idiot. We're making it up as we go along."

"_What-_"

His hand connects with Dean's shoulder. There's a mutter of Enochian prayer, and a searing white light.

Dean screams.


	4. Chapter 3

Claire claps her hands over her ears, wincing at the sharp decibels of Dean's screaming. Her mother is clutching her hand hard enough to hurt, and Claire squeezes back as reassuringly as she can. She can sense her mother is at her wit's end about this-her father being thrown into Hell with Castiel, running into the Winchesters again, the revelation of war in Heaven and angels that wanted to _kill_ them...

She used to dream of far away places, of being a princess or some kind of heroine, going out into the unknown and slaying down terrible beasts, or saving a kingdom from some great, fantastic evil. She used to ache for adventure, of some kind of escape from the endless monotony of suburbia, and she and her friends would roleplay these adventures for hours in the safety of her back yard-sometimes Claire was an evil queen, and sometimes she was thief. She used to love playing villains the most, because there had been a sort of joy in being able to let go of all her careful inhibitions. Her mother didn't scold her for conquering invisible worlds, for capturing her friends and pretending to taunt them with cruel words that were immediately mended at the day's end. Claire would kill them over and over again, and it always ended in laughter and cookies.

But then her father began to speak of angels and God's will, began to insist that one angel in particular was testing his faith and wanted him to commit to a path that would serve righteousness. Claire had been raised with religion laced into nearly every aspect of her life, but both her parents had insisted as she grew that she should make her own decisions, and believe whatever she wanted to believe. And even though her father could be a bit... _enthusiastic_ at times, quoting his favorite biblical passages or debating passionately on Christian issues of the day, he'd never actively insisted on faith in God, never said he could hear the voices of angels until Castiel came to him, and her father, Jimmy Novak, consented his body in what he was told was service to the Lord.

That first awful year had been filled with confusion, and her mother with a frustrated worry. Claire was angry that her father had left, remembering with a cold fear Castiel's harsh words spoken from her father's throat as she stood on the porch of their house and called after him. _I am not your father._ It had haunted her, that deep growl repeated endlessly in her dreams, and at first, she'd cried every single night, and crawled into her mothers bed, begging for comfort. Her mother would hold her and tell her that everything was alright, but Claire didn't feel safe; she wouldn't ever again.

When her father came back, disregarding his faith and hesitantly begging to be let back into the family, Claire hadn't known what to think. But then the demons came, and the Winchesters after them, and then there was Castiel.

_I must ask for your body, Claire,_ the angel had said.

Claire had shivered at the voice, which had been both beautiful and terrible, and somehow fragile all at the same time. She could sense a kind of fear in it-a kind weary resignation. _Are you Castiel?_

_Yes._

_Will you save my parents?_

_Yes, Claire._

_Do you promise to look after them?_

_Of course._

_If I say yes... how long will you keep me?_

_For as long as I need your service._

Claire knew she could confess the angel anything, because the angel knew her inside and out. And so she told him, _I'm scared, Castiel._

And he said, _Fear not. I have long ensured protection of the Novak family, as I have promised to your father, and thus promise to you. Your soul will be safe, Claire._

It was a cold comfort at best, and she knew it even then. But there was something strangely endearing about the angel, the way he believed his words so completely... and she knew she had no other choice, so she'd said yes, and was then seized by the rapture of the angel's warm, powerful grace. She'd believed in his promise, had faith that he would keep it. Castiel would never lie to her.

After that, Claire can't recall anything other than waking to her father being retaken by the angel, and then Castiel had left them wearing her father's body in a way that stood, spoke and walked so alien, so _stiff_, like he wasn't used to the confines of flesh and bone. She'd dream of this, too, and it would haunt her just as much as before, visions of her father's body hollowed out and sewn with a zipper so a being as tall as the Chrysler building and as bright as the sun's core could walk around inside of him, and-

But she'd gotten better at hiding it, because her mother didn't have the patience to comfort her anymore. After the second time, their days were filled with drawn-out silences and extra bags of salt under the kitchen cabinet. Her mother had Sam Winchester's cell phone on speed dial, but she never called him, never dared, afraid that her father's voice, spoken harshly in the growl of an angel, might answer her instead.

Claire doesn't know _how_ to feel about Castiel now. She doesn't hate him, but she doesn't have the faith in God or the angels that she used to. Meeting Balthazar, another angel, with his strange smirks and confident sneering, she's beginning to think that she doesn't like them very much at all. She doesn't even like God anymore, because surely He should be doing something about His children causing such havoc with human lives? Why would God stand by and let the angels start civil war in Heaven, or the end of the world, or let one of them cast an innocent man into Hell?

She just wants her father back. She just wants to be a family again, and to travel back to the land of her adventures, where the evil is always slain, the heroine is always granted her glory, and all pain is temporary and fleeting.

If Claire begrudges Castiel anything, it's shattering those innocent fantasies with revelations of the truth. The world is cruel, and dark, and scary. And sometimes, even angels break their promises.

.

Finally, the screams cease. Dean's body glows briefly, then fades, the light (his soul?) leaving and traveling through Balthazar's connecting arm, and then into Jimmy's body. Jimmy's body glows, then, for another moment, before the light fades entirely, and then there's utter silence.

Amelia's ears are ringing.

When no one says anything for several moments, she asks carefully, "What now?"

The angel shrugs, waves his fingers, and is suddenly holding a bottle of vodka. "Now we wait," Balthazar says.

Amelia approaches him, and steals the bottle for herself. When the angel opens his mouth to protest, she unscrews the cap and downs some of it straight. It sears her throat, burning all the way down, and she coughs. But she feels better as she glares at the angel, and Balthazar rolls his eyes, waving his hand again and making another appear.

"Got nothing better to do, eh? Let's have some fun."

The older hunter-Bobby, Dean said-clears his throat. "No, you wake up Sam. We've got work to do, wards to put up-"

"I've already told you, mate, nobody's interested in-"

"If you're not gonna help, you can leave any time."

Amelia can't help but notice the clenched fury in Bobby's voice. No love lost between the Winchesters and Balthazar, that much is obvious. She wonders, again, what's wrong with Sam, but she knows it's not her problem. There's enough to worry about already.

"Well, then, I guess that's my cue. TTFN."

With another flutter of invisible wings, the angel is gone.

Claire crosses the room to sit at a chair by the bed and hold Jimmy's hand. Amelia frowns at her, worried, and then notes the three bodies sprawled haphazardly across the sheets. "We should wake Sam, or move one of them. The bed's pretty crowded."

"Yeah," Bobby sighs, and then scowls Heavenward. "I've got a panic room down stairs. Thinkin' we should move Dean and Cas there, until-"

"Jimmy. That's my husband's body."

Bobby looks at her-_really_ looks at her, and she knows he understands, because he only nods. Amelia wonders what happened to his wife-was it angels or demons? There's just something about him, about the way he hides his brilliant mind behind that gruff redneck scowl, that aches of tragedy. "Right," he says. "We'll move them down there, then set up more wards around the house. We need something against angels, to prevent them from flying in whenever they damn well please. Was researching that before shit hit the fan, and..." Bobby gestures vaguely, and then rubs absently at a lump on the side of his head. "You know."

"Yes," Amelia says, and walks towards the bed. Bobby follows her and pulls Dean's limp body to lay down at Jimmy's other side, and then gently shakes Sam awake again. Sam doesn't respond, and Bobby stares at him sadly, before sighing and shaking his head.

"Let's get to work."

The bottle of vodka never strays far from her hand, and Bobby takes it occasionally for some solace of his own. Claire pretends not to notice.

.

Death sits in a quaint little Mexican diner just outside of Albuquerque. Typically, he has ordered the heftiest meal on the menu, this one some concoction of tortilla, shredded beef and rice that he carefully whittles away at with his knife and fork. Each time he brings a small bite to his lips, he inhales the flavors in delight. Death is pale by nature, a deceptively frail package of skin and bones, but as Chuck enters the diner, lifting at brow at his brother in bemusement, he knows that it isn't for a lack of appetite.

As Chuck approaches Death's table, set into a darkened little corner of the diner, Death looks up and grants him a tiny, knowing smile that is anything but warm. "Ah, brother. Finally, you grant us your presence."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is."

Death hums, and for once, Chuck isn't sure what it means. He's not sure Death does either, but his elder brother always had been the graceful one.

Chuck slides into the booth, and a plump, dark-skinned waitress named Maria Gonzales (_two children, one with leukemia, husband on the fritz, just barely this side of homeless_) approaches them with a pad. "Hi there, anything I can get you?"

He smiles warmly at her, and Death ignores them both in favor of another bite of whatever the hell he's eating. "Sure. Get me a sandwich, would you? House special."

"Drink?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"It'll be about ten minutes, sir."

Chuck nods at her, and Death tuts at him under his breath. "You've gotten softer since you took that form."

"Speak for yourself," Chuck says. "I saw what you did for the Winchesters. That was generous, by the way. Very kind of you."

Death tips his head in acknowledgment, lifts a brow, and then amends, "It wasn't an insult, brother. I like you better this way."

A wry grin graces Chuck's lips, and he has the dignity to be embarrassed. "So does the rest of us, I presume."

And suddenly, the air grows colder. Death sets his utensils down very carefully, and flicks his eyes back to Chuck. He fingers the thick ring on his finger absently. "Your children are becoming a problem," he says. "It is only out of respect to you that I didn't reap the little brat for enslaving me into this... family quarrel. You must acquire better parenting skills."

Chuck inhales sharply, and pain crosses his face. "Lucifer-"

"Is not the problem," Death says, and lifts his fork again, gesturing with it. "You are."

"You sound like Dean," Chuck mutters, recalling the threats the hunter had made against Him to Castiel before settling into a life of temporary domestic bliss with Lisa and Ben. At least _Cas_ still liked Him-but then, Cas was like that. The angel forgave everything by the nature of being Cas, and Chuck loved him dearly for it.

But he still doesn't like the fact that Death is right, and he manages to put on the impression of a pouting little boy, despite the fact that he's far, far, _far_ from anything of the sort. "You don't understand. I couldn't-"

The waitress slides in and sets down Chuck's sandwich, a Reuben and sauerkraut hugged with Swiss and Thousand Island dressing. Chuck smiles at her again, and Maria beams back. "Anything else?"

Chuck shakes his head, and she turns away to clean surrounding tables. His eyes linger over her bent form for a while, thinking of her two little ones, alone and hungry at home. His face falls.

"Maybe you're right," he mutters.

Death nods gently, slicing another triangle of tortilla, and then dragging it into some meat sauce. He hums with delight when he bites into it, seemingly forgetting himself at the explosion of flavors on his tongue. "I adore human ingenuity," he says. "They know how to _live_."

Despite the fact that he's glad Death is pleased with at least _some _of his children, Chuck is trying his best to be indignant. "I thought we were going to talk shop."

Death gestures at Chuck's plate, and cuts another piece of tortilla on his own with gusto. "Eat," he says, and manages to shove yet another large hunk of tortilla and cheese into his mouth, chewing loudly, but somehow maintaining his dignity.

When he was younger, that mystifying grace used to make Chuck scathingly jealous, but now it just makes him sigh. Chuck lifts his sandwich, and the flavors burst like fireworks on his tongue. He closes his eyes and moans quietly into the food, letting the taste linger before swallowing.

As he opens them again, Death is smiling at him, his eyes flashing with amusement. It's quite... brotherly, actually, and Chuck can't remember the last time he'd felt this between them. It makes him smile, too.

"We haven't done this in ages," Chuck says, after a moment.

Death returns his focus to his dinner, and seems discouraged the meal is almost gone, a frown creasing between his brows. "If you'd stop running from your problems..."

"It wasn't like that." The air grows cold again. Death flicks him a look that seems judgemental, and Chuck runs a hand through his hair. "It wasn't," he insists. "I just... I forgot who I was."

Death says nothing, but it's obvious from the lift of his slim brow that he doesn't believe that's all there is to it, even if it _was_ possible.

"Look. It's... It's complicated."

"Only if you make it so."

"It _is_."

"I know," Death says, and tips his head. "But it's your own fault, brother."

Chuck makes a frustrated noise and savagely bites into his sandwich. He mutters with his mouth full, bits of food flicking out onto the table. "I wanted them to grow up. I gave them freedom, and I wanted them to use it. I wanted them to think for themselves, for once."

"Excuses. Free will has no place in the existence of angels, brother, and you could forget your duty no more than I could, unless you'd wished it. You have lost touch with who and what you are. Do you not realize your actions or lack thereof impact all of us?"

"They're my _children_. I just-I wanted to-you wouldn't understand."

Death just looks at him.

Chuck stares down at his plate, putting down the sandwich again. He can't meet that knowing stare. "It's complicated," he says again.

"Like the Winchesters."

"Yes. I never meant to-"

"They've repeatedly altered fate, making my job very difficult. The messes I've been forced to clean after..."

Chuck rubs his forehead, and sighs. "It isn't their fault."

"And what of the souls, brother? With Heaven in shambles and Hell without a proper ruler-"

"It's chaos, I know. It'll all work out in the end."

Death doesn't respond, and Chuck is scathed by that silent disapproval. Like Sam aching for Dean's respect, Chuck aches for the respect and approval of Death. Some things, at least, are universal that way.

"It _will_," he says with conviction. "I give you my word."

Death finishes the last piece of tortilla, and carefully wipes his mouth with a pristine napkin. Chuck looks at him imploringly, waiting for some kind of response.

But his brother remains silent, and Chuck looks out the window of the diner instead.


	5. Chapter 4

Hell operates in extremes.

It's either too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry or too stale or too humid... In his previous forty years down here (far, far longer than he'd ever been alive on Earth), Dean had gotten to know all of these conditions, in some fashion or another. Too bloody, soaked from head to toe in the writhing entails of the witches he dismembered piece by piece. Too hateful, towards himself, towards Alastair, towards the souls he maimed, towards God and the Devil and life with all it's fucking problems. Too loving, the knife slicing tenderly across his skin as Alastair dressed and spoke and smiled like his father-_I do this because I love you, Dean, and I want you to know that_-too pleasurable, Alastair's careful fingers crawling up his body in a sudden ceasing of pain. He'd been given pleasure after thirty years of non-stop, never-ending agony-because that was the secret to breaking them, he learned, giving them just enough, _just enough_, to tip the scales until they just couldn't take it anymore, until they had to take that one good thing and ride the high and escape for just a few minutes to a place other than _there_. It was a shallow reprieve that pushed him over, and this was something that shamed him the most. Alastair came to him as a nameless brunet with a bust that could bring down better men, deft little fingers rubbing him in all the right places until he gave in, gave up, and gave right back again.

Alastair had been his constant, his everything. There were days, delirious from pain, when he'd call the demon his God, days when he'd even call him his Master. Did Cas know how broken Dean had been when he'd referred to him the Righteous Man? When he looked deep into Dean's soul with those sharp puppy-blues, and wondered with bizarre confusion that Dean didn't think he was worth saving?

Dean remembers everything of Hell, every last second of pain, every soul he'd shredded underneath Alastair's blade, but never the last few minutes. He doesn't remember Cas's true form, and he isn't sure if he'd seen other angels in the garrison, fighting back the demons while Cas lifted him Earth-bound. Dean doesn't remember his body being reborn until the decay of death was gone, and then he was crawling out of the Earth like a babe from his mother's womb. Nothing and no one remembers their own birth, and maybe there's something fundamentally poignant to that. Maybe he's fortunate.

But he knows exactly every last second of his death.

Dean stumbles when his feet touch down on the deceptively soft, wet earth at the entrance of Hell, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he clutches at his shoulder in pain. Castiel's mark burns as if remade fresh, and it stings to the touch, pulsing with a low heat. As Dean pulls up his sleeve to look at it, he notices a faint glow emanating from the body of the hand print. There's a tugging sensation in the mark, and he finds himself turning in the direction of its pull, as if he were being lured on a string towards some far off direction. Dean recalls the glowing cord Balthazar had pulled from Jimmy's chest, and thinks perhaps that it isn't too far from the truth.

He begins to walk in that direction when he reaches an old, black suspension bridge, built over the River of Styx. Two visible massive hell hounds guard the entrance, both of them chained to a central post, and Dean eyes both it and them nervously, fear clawing at him in the ghost of remembered agony. The damned souls who march willingly onward to their fate slide by the hounds carefully, he notices, and the hounds leave them well alone, occasionally lunging for one almost playfully as they become bored. When Dean attempts to slide by them with the rest of the throng, however, the hound nearest begins to bark in a nasty, deep-throated manner, immediately joined by his brother. The souls around him look on with fear and skitter past like mice from the commotion, but the hounds pay them no mind, focused on Dean as if he had transformed into six foot tall juicy steak. Dean hovers just out of both the hound's reach, tipping back as far as he can go without falling over the end of the bridge, his neck craned to avoid being bitten.

And then suddenly the hounds are being jerked back on their chains, and a voice is yelling at them. "Calm down, calm down! What's got you spooked, boys?" When one of the hounds snaps at the figure wrapped in shadow, the man slaps the hound on the nose, and it whines at him pitifully. "I said calm down! Now sit."

Both hounds do so, wagging their scaly, whip-like tails like any other canine, heads dipped low, ears tucked back, black tongues lolling happily. The figure scruffs both hounds behind the ears, and Dean sees the hint of pale, bony fingers. "Good boys. Now let me see... ah. Yes, yes, we were told you were coming back, Mr. Winchester. The hounds still don't like you, I fear..." There's a laugh that could be mistaken for someone hacking through a tracheotomy. Dean winces at the mental image-old Mrs. Meadows used to have one, and she'd blow smoke out the hole just to scare John's litlte boys from the habit. Left scars, it did.

"Maybe you taste bad," the figure adds.

Dean eyes the hounds with not a little bit of terror. Though they seem docile now that the figure has taken control of the situation, they haven't averted their gaze from Dean since. Drool slips out of their panting mouths and drips on the wooden floor of the bridge, which sizzles on contact. Beady eyes glare at him hungrily from the shadows.

"Good," Dean says, shivering. "I taste awful, really bad, like-"

The figure steps out from the shadows cast by the bridge into the pale light of Hell. He's an extremely thin man, little but bones wrapped tightly in too-white skin, and he approaches Dean with sure, slow steps, holding a staff to help him walk, dressed in a long, swirling black cloak, a hood pulled low over his face. His voice is high and creaky, though it sounds friendly enough. Which isn't saying much in Hell, of course, but Dean's pretty sure he knows who it is.

"You're the boatman?"

"Used to be," the old man admits through rotted teeth. "We modernized some time back. Far more efficient to use a bridge. Thanks for that bit of genius, by the way, you guys really know your tech."

Dean is careful not to roll his eyes. "So... may I pass, then?"

The boatman regards him carefully, but Dean can't tell his expression very well beyond the hood. What little he can see of his eyes are dark and beady, like the hounds that flank him.

"Well, normally there's a fee," the boatman says.

Dean's already digging into his pocket for coins, and the boatman shakes his head. "No, no, nothing like that. I'm paid through souls. Think of me as... the secretary of the Hell bank."

"Secretary. Of the Hell bank."

"Precisely!" The boatman beams at him. Then a thought comes, and the smile falls abruptly. "But I can't take _yours_. Your soul is marked, sonny."

Dean's hand travels to the painful mark on his shoulder, and winces again. "You mean-"

"Oh yes, you're already bought and paid for. You should be grateful, it's not every day a soul's given such a guarantee to the pearly gates. You could slaughter a league of virgins, bathe in baby blood, and eat your daddy for dinner, and you'd still be cloud seating come sunrise... should something smother you in your sleep, of course."

"I'm _not-_"

"But you are," the boatman says. "It's all right there, plain as day. Your own personal get out of jail permanently free card."

"That's..."

"Very rare, yes! Very, _very_ rare. Last time I saw a mark like that was when the big J came to visit. Good times, that was, good times..."

"Right," Dean says, spooked now. For many reasons. The boatman is so _friendly_. And the hounds have now crept up behind him, licking at the boatman's slack left hand in an oddly endearing, puppyish manner. Had Crowley spread holiday cheer when he was King, or what? "So... can I pass, then?"

"Well... you _have_ to sacrifice something. Those are the Rules, boy."

Dean doesn't bother asking about the origin of such things-the first time he was here, he learned the wisdom of keeping his mouth shut the hard way. So he digs into his pocket for change again, when the boatman waggles a boney finger at him. "No, no. It has to be something of great, personal value. It's a sacrifice, see?"

It takes him a while to think of it, but then Dean pulls out Uriel's sword. His eyes follow the Enochian sigils carved into the blade as he recalls Cas's pained look at the reminder of his brother's betrayal when he'd handed it to Dean. Cas had given it to him with such bitterness... but it felt warm and welcoming in Dean's hands. Even now it vibrates, as if it were a snake coiled to strike one last deadly blow.

But instead of striking down the boatman (it'd never end well), Dean holds it openly towards him. "Will this do?"

The boatman coos. "Oooh... not quite the personal sacrifice I was looking for, but-"

"Dude, I'm giving you my only weapon, going into _Hell._ Take it or leave it."

The boatman flicks his eyes upwards at Dean's face, and although the hunter can barely make out the expression underneath the hood, he thinks those beady eyes roll at him in annoyance. "Yes, yes, of course. It's an angel-killing sword, and we don't get too many around here. But it's still not the quite sacrifice we're looking for." The boatman tuts, and seizes Dean's chin abruptly, turning his head left and right. Dean doesn't have time to react before those deceptively strong bony fingers release him again. "There must be something... ah! A memory. That would do, right along with the sword."

"A mem-you're not going to take my memories! I already gave you my damn weapon-"

"Not _all_ of your memories, sonny, just one. And the weapon too, yes," the boatman adds, clutching Uriel's sword against his chest like a child with a beloved toy.

"No deal. Just the memory, dude, I'm not giving you my sword."

The boatman shakes his head, stepping back with the weapon out of Dean's reach. "I keep the sword! It's mine!"

"Well, why don't I just-" The hounds behind the boatman growl at Dean. Dean pales. "O-Okay. Do I get to pick? The memory?"

"No. You'd pick something that didn't have great personal value, see? And this is Hell. Not everything will go so smoothly, sonny."

_If you can call this smooth, _Dean thinks, and the hounds growl at him again. Fuck! "At least pick something-"

"Nope, sorry. Either a yes or a no, Mr. Winchester. Clock's ticking, and you don't want to be stuck on this bridge with the hounds, hmm?"

The beasts growl at him menacingly on cue, razor-sharp teeth revealed from lips curled back into low snarls. His eyes fall to claws as large as meat hooks, remembers them ripping through his muscles, that _pain_... He recalls screaming for help when the fear blinded him and the agony took hold, bright and never-ending from then on after for thirty long years. He remembers bleeding out onto the wooden floor, remembers sobbing for his little brother...

"It has to be a big one, Mr. Winchester. I'm sorry, but that's the way it works here, you know that."

The boatman doesn't look sorry at all, and Dean feels sick. "Right," he says, the fight gone from him. His voice is lowered to a mere whisper. "Fine. Take it. Don't tell me what it is, just take it."

There's a nod, and then bony fingers are gently grasping at his temples, curling into his hair. "This won't hurt a bit," the boatman tells him, and it doesn't.

Dean doesn't feel anything at all, and somehow, that makes it so much worse.

Whatever it was the boatman took makes him beam with savage happiness. "That's good, that's _very_ good..."

"Glad you approve," Dean mutters, suddenly feeling foolish. Couldn't there have been a better way? And how is he going to defend himself without his sword? But Cas's grace is pulling at him again, and Dean knows he doesn't have time to regret it. At least he's in control this trip, and he's here for a reason. "May I go, now?"

"Of course, of course! Welcome to Hell," the boatman tells him cheerfully.

Dean nods, skirting by the hounds who have lost interest in him once again, merely growling lightly before returning their attention to the boatman and passing souls. The boatman himself is petting Uriel's sword, inspecting the markings with his pale, bony finger, and babbling excitedly to no one in particular. Dean wonders if it was the best idea to give him the sword, but then he figures it doesn't matter. At least he's in Hell now, and Cas's mark is pointing him in the right direction.

So it's a start.

.

Sam jolts upright in the bed. Everyone is gone, including both Dean and Castiel, but he can hear the commotion of activity downstairs, and thinks with a relieved sigh that maybe he'd been dreaming Dean's bizarre martyrdom after all. Brushing a hand through his hair to tame it back into some sort of sanity (might as well be waiting for pigs to sprout wings), Sam crawls out of bed and stumbles, zombie-like, down at the stairs into the main section of the house.

instead of Dean or his angel, Sam finds Bobby and Jimmy's wife hovered over an ancient book, both of them sitting eerily close together, a half-empty bottle of vodka sitting on the side table next to them. Claire is on the couch, watching Hannah Montana and drawing into a small spiral sketchbook with a bitten yellow pencil.

Sam squints at the scene, and his brain feels like it's trying to operate through sludge.

"Uh. Hi?"

Claire looks up, smiles at him briefly, then returns to her drawing. When Bobby notices him, he jumps a little, hand flying to the bruises around his neck. Sam ducks his head in shame. "I, um, I think I'll..."

"Sam, sit down."

He finds a chair and does so. Bobby slips out from Amelia's close contact (_something_ going on there), eye-balling Sam at first with a soul-searching stare, and then with immediate, gruff affection. The elder hunter approaches Sam and claps him on the back, saying, "Nice to see you back, son."

Sam's eyes water, and he's thinking about blaming it on Hannah Montana's haphazard fashion sense. Which is a weird thing to notice when you're having a personal family moment and-"It's, uh, nice to see you too, Bobby..."

"C'mere, idjit."

But Bobby comes to him, wrapping those big, plaid-covered arms around him and beating him on the back with manly appreciation for the basics of human connection. Sam hugs back, beating in return, and when Bobby finally pulls away, they've both got watery expressions on their faces. "Bobby, I'm sorry about-"

"Don't mention it, you weren't right in the head."

"But-"

"Kid, forget it. It's good to see you back."

And it is. It's good to _be_ back, without demon blood or impending doom or Lucifer's temptations or a complete and utter flat-line in his emotional make-up. It's hard to fathom he'd spent the last year as a sociopath, and he'd let Dean get turned into a_ vampire_, oh God-

"Sam, c'mon, focus. It's fine now, y'here?"

"Y-yeah," he says, shakily, and looks around again. Jimmy's wife has her nose buried in the book she and Bobby were reading, and Claire is carefully avoiding looking at both of them, focusing on the details of her drawing instead.

But there's someone missing. Two someones. "So... where's Dean?"

Bobby's face falls, and Sam's heart clunks down into his stomach.

"Bobby, what happened?"

"Sam... you should sit back down."

"Bobby..."

"Sit down, Sam."

"Bobby, _where's Dean?_"

Silence answers him. Sam flails his arms and makes a wretched, frustrated groan from the back of his throat. "Can someone please tell me where the hell my brother is? What's going _on?_"

Claire flinches at the tone, and Jimmy's wife looks up, a frown etched in her eyes. Bobby clears his throat almost nervously. He glances at Jimmy's wife, then at television, then at the floor. For the first time in his life, the elder hunter can't seem to make Sam's eyes, and that has him worried more than anything.

"You're not gonna like it, kid. Christ knows I don't."

"Tell me."

So Bobby takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts, and begins to recite the events of that morning.


	6. Chapter 5

First off, sorry for the delay. This chapter was absolute hell to write, and RL got pretty complicated, so. Yeah. At least it's over twice as long as the last one!

Secondly, this chapter is where several things happen: it's the start of a slight crossover with Good Omens (just Azi & Crowley, and you don't need to know anything about that 'verse, so don't panic), two new OCs are introduced, AND some of this plot finally starts coming to a head. Let me know what you think.

.

"He did _what_?"

"Sam-"

"Bobby, how could you let him-"

"Sam, think! It's Dean! I never _let him_ do anything, ya idjit!"

"It's _Hell_, Bobby. You know, Hell? The place he spent last two years trying to forget about? Cas or not, you can't just expect him to-to just-"

"Do you really think he'd let Castiel suffer? After all this time, I'd think _you_ would have noticed-" But Bobby cuts himself off, leaving the words hanging in the air like the sword of fucking Damocles.

Sam glares at the floor, muttering, "Cas can take care of himself. If he pulled Dean out of Hell, what makes you think he couldn't-"

He jerks back as Bobby steps right into his space, those ancient eyes marred by years of grief staring him down. "Jimmy's down there too. A citizen, Sam. It was Dean's choice in the end, and you know he would _never_ let an innocent man suffer down there if he had anything to say about it."

"Bobby, I just got back." Sam's voice trembles a little, his eyes wide with the sting of it. Somewhere deep inside him, there's a curtain that flutters in a chilly breeze. He shivers, but presses on. "We've been separated for over a year. Just one day, that's all I want, you know? One day with my brother, where no one's trying to end the world or kill us or kill our friends. Is that really so hard to ask?"

Silence falls between them, and Sam's eyes float towards the couch. Claire has curled up underneath her mother's comforting arm, and the two of them are listening to the exchange between he and Bobby intently without trying to be obvious about it. He frowns at the sight of Jimmy's little girl, those small hands clutching at her mother's shirt, her face buried in soft cotton to hide from the world. Amelia gently combs her fingers through her daughter's hair, but there's a tired resolve lined permanently around her eyes. It reminds Sam of Ellen, of the way she'd keep Jo underneath her thumb at all times, the way she'd panic when Jo would run off without a word, the way her eyes would freeze to chips of ice when Jo was in danger, her gun cocked, bullets screaming in the air...

He can't help it; he envisions Amelia and Claire cornered in a small hardware store, hellhounds bearing down on them as they clutch at each other with reinforced declarations of love and family.

Sam suddenly feels both incredibly guilty, and a bit sick.

"Look, kid, I'm sorry," Bobby says, "but shit happens, alright? You know it and I know it, and Dean knows it too. He saw a chance to save the lives of two good men, and he took it. Now, I'm not happy about it either, but-"

Sam inhales a shaky breath, and meets Amelia's eyes, interrupting Bobby. "Does Dean even have a way back?"

"I don't know, kid. It happened a little too fast."

"Maybe we should find one, then. Cas had allies, right? We should find _them_. Get them to help us out."

Bobby scowls a little, but nods anyway. "If they will," he amends. "If they're as slimy as Balthazar, I ain't trustin' them."

Sam thinks back on recent events, winces, and has to agree. He sighs, suddenly exhausted. Still exhausted. There's some part of his body that keeps trying to remind him he hasn't really slept since _last year_.

Also, wow.

But instead of high-tailing it back to bed, Sam tilts his head towards the basement door. "Did you put them in the panic room?"

"Yeah," Bobby says.

"Show me."

.

It's a quaint little shop tucked into an alley just outside the chaos of Paris. Chuck smiles at the colorful blue storefront, which boasts of antique books that are well loved, if the frayed leather-bound covers in the window are anything to go by. He strides into the shop, full of purpose, and that smile grows further affectionate at the smell of cinnamon that wafts from the back of the store.

Aziraphale is eating a large cinnamon bun oozing with glaze. His eyes slip shut at the sweet burst of flavor, and he coos softly with happiness. Chuck laughs a little at the sight, and the angel opens his bright blue eyes again, scowling at the visitor in a way that, while friendly, is not entirely welcoming. After all, Aziraphale does not give up his precious books easily, even if they _are_ supposedly up for purchase. "Can I help you, dear?"

"You don't recognize me, Aziraphale? I would be offended, but I guess things have changed since the last time we met."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand-"

Chuck smiles somewhat lopsidedly and says, "I keep hearing I work in mysterious ways, so I'll cut you some slack."

Aziraphale's eyes widen comically when the connection strikes, and he brushes his hand through his hair, which makes the blond tufts stick up haphazardly. He stumbles from behind the counter, chair clattering loudly against the tiles behind him as he races towards Chuck, bending low, his hands flapping. "Oh, _dear! _Oh dear! I didn't-_Father?"_

His smile softens a little. "Aziraphale, relax."

"But-_Father?"_

Aziraphale has good reason to be dumbstruck. Raphael is the only angel left to have seen his full appearance knowingly, and the rest are either dead or cast into Hell. At the painful memories, Chuck grimaces, but it doesn't last for long. The affectionate smile surges back as Aziraphale attempts to kneel before him.

He cradles blond's chin gently, and motions him to stand again. Aziraphale does, shaking, and he cries out, "Oh _dear,_" wringing his hands furiously. "Father, I-"

"Shush. I need your help, Aziraphale."

"_My_ help? I-I mean, of course, Father, but I-"

"Your little demon friend, Crowley. Do you know where he is?"

If it were possible, Aziraphale's eyes grow even larger. "Father? You mean you don't-I-oh _dear_. I-I don't know, Father. I'm sorry, I-"

"Aziraphale. Relax." He gently places his hand on the flustered angel's back, and steers him towards the counter, where Aziraphale's cinnamon bun has been abandoned. It lays sideways on its plastic wrapping, white glaze drizzling to puddle around it like a sticky pedestal to the best three-and-a-half-inch (nearly 9 centimeters, Chuck reminds himself, because he's in the UK now) statue in all of human history. He lifts the treat, inhales the sickly sweet smell with a bit of relish, and then drops it onto the angel's hand without further ado.

"Eat," he says, and Aziraphale does, plonking into the nearest chair. The angel looks pale, and in the other plane where angel wings and the true forms of demons hide from ordinary human perception, Aziraphale's wings droop a little with equal exhaustion and shock.

The angel nibbles on the cinnamon bun, clearly distracted, and it isn't long before he speaks up again with a worried frown. "Pardon, but... why do you ask of Crowley? I haven't seen him in an age."

There's a note of bitter finale in the angel's voice, which is strange to hear from someone normally so sweet and optimistic. Chuck sees the wings droop even farther as the angel thinks of the demon, and he _knows_ about the two of them, but doesn't comment. Aziraphale looks positively _miserable,_ and as one of his kinder, more generous children, Chuck doesn't like this at all. He tuts under his breath, and shrugs a little.

"He's usually interested in preventing The End, correct?" As Aziraphale nods, confused, Chuck continues, "I believe he may be able to help a friend of mine-Dean Winchester. Dean has descended into Hell to rescue Castiel, and his vessel Jimmy Novak."

"_Cas-_Castiel? Oh dear, Castiel has _fallen_-?"

"No. Well-yes, but it wasn't-"

Chuck sighs, frustrated, and the pained expression is back again. He thinks darkly that perhaps Death had been right, and he _should_ have intervened directly. Lucifer and Michael obviously hadn't learned anything, even after all this time. It's a horrible feeling, like he's somehow failed at being the Father he'd always wanted to be.

But Castiel had learned things. And so had Aziraphale, in his own way.

"It's complicated," Chuck says, attempting to smile reassuringly. "Everything will work out for the best, don't worry." Though he is worried, very much so (it's hard to tell the future for certain when things keep changing around him so rapidly), and he simply doesn't want _Aziraphale_ to worry. The poor little angel looks frayed already at reminder of his demonic partner's absence. Had they parted angrily? It seems like Chuck should know this, and the fact that he doesn't troubles him more than anything had in such a long time. He'd forgotten so much... even now, it's like working through a fog, and he's... drained, trying to keep up with his own creations, with all of life buzzing around him, most of it screaming inches from his ear. The Earth moans in pain underneath his feet as a trillion little creatures die that very moment, and another trillion the next. Life pulses with unending _pain_ (and pleasure and sadness and joy), and Chuck rubs at his brow at an oncoming headache. No, a migraine.

_God gets migraines_, he thinks, on the edge of hilarity.

There is suffering and pain and madness and despair, and it vibrates deep in his creation with the music of failure. There's some part of him, shadowed and silenced by things he doesn't understand anymore, that seethes with _rage_. He doesn't know why, but he's _furious_, furious enough to wish The End of Everything, to return to the way of Before.

It terrifies him, because Death is, once again, right-whatever _has_ happened to make Chuck forget is something he'd done to himself, and probably for good reason. Which means he doesn't _want_ to remember, because then he might very well aid Raphael's wishes.

And he's still mad at Raphael. Speaking of which, he really needs to give the Cellar a good clean-up. Chuck mentally adds this to his to-do list (_scrub the Basement, perform pest control_), when he's interrupted by a hesitant voice.

"Father...?"

Aziraphale's worry is practically burning twin beams into his forehead, but Chuck smiles as calmly as possible. He can fake it. It's what the Winchesters did best, right? And Chuck likes the Winchesters, because they have a cool car, they like classic rock, they get to sleep with gorgeous women (not that Becky isn't gorgeous, and of course he loves her dearly), and their tragic past has given them a story interesting enough to make Chuck happy amounts of money. If Chuck were actually human (and believe you him, he honestly thought he had been), he'd want to be exactly like the Winchesters. Except, probably as a writer. And with more beer. And maybe an updated music collection, because Kansas gets old after the hundredth rendition of _Wayward Son_.

The smile fades a little when he recalls the depressing lyrics, and Chuck considers cracking a sex joke to lighten the tension, because that's what Dean would do.

But Aziraphale looks like he's going to faint any second now, and maybe that's not a good idea. Besides-back to the point of this odd lovers quarrel between the angel and that little demon, it's hard to imagine Aziraphale getting into an argument with _anyone_. He'll have to keep an eye on this and see how it develops. It could prove to be interesting material for his next novel.

This time, Chuck smiles for real-_that's what I need_, he thinks, _an old fashioned, feel-good love story. _His fans might not buy into it for a while, but they were a loyal bunch, and they'd probably enjoy the whole forbidden lusts thing. You didn't get more forbidden than an angel and a demon, right?

Said angel is still trembling slightly, but seems to firm up the courage enough to remember their current conversation, and calculate enough from the insane dialog to argue Chuck's methods. Chuck is, admittedly, impressed. He's finding it hard to keep track, all of the sudden.

"Father, with all due respect, if it worries you that Castiel is in Hell, couldn't you just go down there and-"

"No. I can't interfere with these events directly, especially in things related to Hell. Family politics, that free will clause, and there's this agreement contract I signed eons ago... you understand."

Chuck flips a hand almost mockingly at his self-imposed problems, and Aziraphale stares at it. From the lost expression in the angel's eyes, Chuck can tell he doesn't understand at all, but the angel nods anyway, absently.

Then something catches Aziraphale's attention, the angel's thoughts whirring like a super computer. "But Castiel is a soldier, the very _best_," he insists, suddenly taken by loyalty to a brother he'd never really known. "He couldn't have fallen. Castiel has such a talent for flight, and is very loyal. A bit stiff, sure, but who isn't Upstairs..."

Babbling is a nervous habit for Aziraphale. He reddens like an apple and ducks into himself a bit fearfully, realizing suddenly what he'd said and to whom he's speaking. "I apologize, Father, I never meant any disrespect-"

"Aziraphale, how many times do I have to tell you? Relax. I'm not going to smite anyone, okay?"

The angel flicks his eyes up warily, and as Chuck beams at him as friendly as he can possibly manage, Aziraphale unfurls himself slowly, like a wary mouse prodding at table scraps. "I-I apologize, Father..."

"Stop that. Finish your cinnamon bun."

Reddening further at being treated like a child-by his _Father_, for the first time in his entire _existence_-Aziraphale once again does as he is told.

"So," Chuck says lightly, clapping his hands. "If Crowley's AWOL..." He brightens, then, glancing at his son curiously. "Hey, you don't suppose your Crowley and the other Crowley were related, do you?"

"I-I'm afraid don't know what you're referring too."

"Right, of course not." Chuck nods to himself, struggling to get back on topic again. "Anyway, that probably won't work. I need a proper soldier. Someone loyal, you know? Someone _smart_. Don't find too many of those these days..."

Then Chuck, or God, or whatever, _whoever_ he actually is and was, snaps his fingers in victory. "_I_ know! Gabriel! Gabe'll do it."

Aziraphale just barely refrains from groaning, and though he doesn't say a word, Chuck can see the reluctance in him plain as day.

He lifts a calm brow. "What's wrong with Gabriel?"

"Well, err, Father... h-he's a-a little... err..."

"Creative! Yes. Even better."

Aziraphale wouldn't dare protest his Father, especially when it comes to fates of his archangels. But as Chuck snaps his fingers, and a bright, searing light tears through the bookstore, wind swirling and papers flying everywhere, he seriously considers it anyway.

.

Weeks pass.

He clings to the craggy walls of Hell, avoiding gazes of the damned and demons like. It takes nearly all of his willpower to avoid coming to the aid of those who scream in agony, each moment no different than the rest, millions of souls suffering at each level for sins that someone, somewhere, had decided was worth punishing for the rest of eternity.

One level is packed with an endless sea of squirming bodies that are fused together, their mouths gaped open with choked inhalations, blood dribbling from weeping sores that puddle and add to the ocean of flesh and fluids until all of them are coated in wet, red agony. Demons tread on their bare backs with hooked feet as they travel between this level and the next, tearing into the muscle and bone underneath them and relishing in the resulting screams.

Dean passes through as quietly as he can, staying close to the very edges of the squirming sea and crawling over the bodies on his hands and knees as they beg and plead at him for even the slightest mercy. He covers their mouths when they scream as he digs into their injuries or rips conjoined flesh at a misplaced step, his boot soles slick with blood. It kills him, and there's an echoing growl that sounds strangely like his father deep in the pit of him, reminding Dean that each of these souls deserve their pain for the pain they've no doubt caused in others.

But he doesn't really believe in the black and white world of good and evil anymore. He doesn't believe that any crime is worth this kind of punishment, and he sure as fuck doesn't believe that God or fate or Peter at the Gates never makes a mistake, that glancing at a life in cold detachment against whatever set of rules someone deemed necessary to abide by is enough to judge someone guilty without ever acknowledging the fact that each child is born innocent until corrupted, driven mad, and beaten into the hemorrhaging shell of a human being they'd eventually turned into. _Everyone_ makes mistakes, _everyone_ deserves to suffer for _something_, and what makes some sins more forgivable than others?

There are days when Dean climbs over the screaming bodies, and all he can think is, _I deserve to be in your place._ But then Cas's mark pulses angrily, as if scolding him, pulling Dean continuously in one direction that seems to go deeper and deeper into the Pit, until he's unsure if he'll ever be able to climb back up again.

And still, all the repression in the world can't stop him from thinking of his reputation and the countless, painful lessons that had been scarred into his mind from the last time he'd been here. It's worse when he notices the tell-tale sign of souls becoming black and malleable underneath him, their eyes darkening with such hatred that sometimes they'll lift themselves from their tortures only to happily bury their teeth into the flesh of their fellow damned. Demons are broken and birthed every second in Hell, and Dean recalls with disturbing pride the whispers of awe that he had inspired in them with Alastair's careful tutelage.

In ten years, after thirty on the rack, Dean had become one of the most proficient torturers in Hell. This is because, in his short time behind the knife, he had broken over three thousand, six hundred souls, transforming each of them into some of the worst demons Hell has ever seen.

He isn't sure Sam will ever be able to grasp that. He isn't sure _Cas_ has been able to grasp it, despite the fact that the angel witnessed it first hand. How could they dare to look at him, to trust his judgment, to name him both a friend and brother otherwise? Didn't they care about the horrible things he'd done? Didn't _his_ sins matter? What made him so damned special, when so many others were suffering for far lesser crimes?

It's just as he's reaching the descending slope into the next level that two things happen-first, he realizes that if Bobby could hear his thoughts, he'd slap Dean on the back of the head and tell him to grow a pair.

The second is that he's been noticed, and it's by a very familiar face.

"Well, well, well. Looks like little Deany's come back home. Isn't that sweet, honey bunch?"

Meg is standing calmly on the backs of two sinners, one hand on her hip, the other arm curved around the waist of a tall, curvy redhead.

For a moment, Dean's brain stops working. Meg's catch is _gorgeous_, with perfect creamy skin, her lips full and painted red to match the color of her long tumbling hair, her eyes a sharp, emerald green, and her rack modest in size but _full_, her body all gently curving slopes that a part of Dean wants to lick and follow until he knows every inch of her skin.

Her lips twitch upwards into a quiet smile, and Dean's knees tremble to keep himself upright.

"Thought you'd like her, Deany. You always were a bit of a pervert, you know that?"

Suddenly, Dean thinks _Lisa_, and the spell is broken. The redhead looks from him to Meg, and Dean barely has time to register that his infatuation is some kind of thrall-_has_ to be, he hasn't thought about casual sex at _all,_ since-

Meg's new girlfriend gently locks lips with her, and Meg's eyes slip shut with pleasure.

Against all rational thought, Dean is jealous. Insanely jealous (_Meg doesn't deserve a gorgeous bitch like that!_), and he takes a step towards them, fists bared and a snarl on his lips.

But the woman flicks her small, manicured hand, and Dean goes flying backwards, landing in the flesh and blood, shrieks ripping from the souls beneath him as they break under his fall.

The woman is striding towards him with a grace that seems unearthly, especially as she steps along the blacks of the squirming souls, which doesn't make for the most solid ground. Dean scrambles backwards, spell or thrall or whatever-the-fuck firmly broken, and he knows this isn't good for him at all. He's vastly out-matched, he _still_ doesn't have a weapon, and the rules upstairs don't apply, so spitting out exorcist verses won't do damn thing.

He shivers with flashbacks of Lilith; her eyes are pure white where other demons are black, and her body glows slightly as she treads in his direction, emanating power that makes the souls around them desperate to squirm away.

Behind the demon, Meg claps her hands in glee. "Are you going hurt him, cupcake?"

"No," the woman says, and her voice soft, sultry, hypnotic...

Dean stills, taken again... and then slowly shakes his head, fighting the hunger. "You can't fool me with your thrall of the vampire trick. You're just another hag-"

One manicured hand claws at his neck, viper-quick, her nails shiny and red, and Dean wonders if between that and the hair, she has a blood fetish. That hand wraps around his throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air until his feet are dangling and he can't fucking breathe. Not that he needs to, but the sensation of utter panic that seizes his body doesn't seem to know that.

"Hag? Perhaps," the woman says, with a soft smile. "I am rather old, far more than your little mind could ever hope to understand, Righteous Man. But I assure you, fooling you is quite simple."

She looks into his eyes, and his struggling ends abruptly. He feels warm and comforted-he can feel _peace_ seeping into his bones for the first time since _forever_, and he finds himself whining at the back of his throat, wanting more and grasping at her curvy body, fingers pawing at her breasts to get it, headless of his own choking. She keeps him dangling at an arm's length over the fleshy, squirming floor, and laughs at him.

"I can see why you like him, darling."

"Oh yes," Meg says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Deany and Sammy are such adorable little things. We should keep him, cupcake. Can we, please?"

Dean nods at them desperately. He doesn't care, nothing matters, he just wants to _touch_ her, and if she'd only let him-

She tosses him away amongst the souls again, like he's something vile she can't stand to touch for long. One fine crimson brow is raised in something like disgust, and... he feels ashamed. "No," she says. "We will let him find the angel and his vessel."

"_What?_ You shouldn't underestimate-"

The woman glares at Meg, and Meg ducks her head slightly in a bizarre show of submission. Dean's mind is foggy at best, still fighting the thrall, and as he stares at the two women, all he can do is wonder at how he possibly thought _any _of this was a good idea. Fucking Balthazar.

Meg's voice is thick and worried. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Shh," the woman coos, and closes the distance between them as easy as a blink. She wraps her arm around Meg's waist, pulling the other woman against her.

Meg looks up at the redhead adoringly. "Naamah..."

"I know," she says, and gently kisses Meg's forehead. "We will let him continue his quest unguarded."

"But you don't understand, Naamah. The Winchesters-"

"I know what I'm doing."

"Cupcake, _please._ The angel is _ours_ now. We don't want-"

"Hush."

"But cupcake..."

"I said hush," and Naamah's voice carries the hint of steel. Meg seems to shrivel slightly, ducking her head again. "This is important," the redhead says. "I know better than you. Let it be."

Meg falls silent as Dean finally crawls back to his feet again, wincing when he missteps and flesh rips underneath him, the resulting cries echoing around them. Naahmah tips her head back, relishing the sound. She moans, and it goes straight to his dick, despite his better judgement.

"They still speak of you as legend," she says, rolling her eyes to him. For once, there is no power in the stare, merely curiosity.

He feels like a bug beneath a magnifying glass. Naturally, this means he needs to be even more obnoxious than usual. "Naahmah, is it? The hell kind of name is that? No, wait, don't answer. What do you want, you old hag? I'm up for most things, but keep in mind; no rubber, no friction."

Naahmah laughs something high and wicked. "If I wanted you, I would have you. But I do not." She glances at Meg as she says it, and the hunger easy to see. Meg shivers at the eye contact... Dean sighs mentally. Lesbian demons. Okay, he could deal with that. "Go forth and continue your journey, Righteous Man. The angel you seek dwells within the city of Dis."

She points in the direction that Cas's burning mark continues to tug him, in the same direction that the low light of Hell rests just on the horizon. Dean tries not to curse; his rescue plans just got a fuckload more complicated, because of _course_ Cas had to be in the absolute worst sections of Hell.

Warily, Dean treads between the squirming bodies, never once giving the two demons his back. As he slides down the slope into the next level, Meg and Naamah stare after him, the two of them interlocked hip to hip like newly weds.

.

The fan swirls in slow increments over the panic room, the sunlight through its pentagram-shaped bars casting drab shadows on the painted iron walls. Underneath the fan lies Dean and Cas, each tied down to a bed with an IV line in their arms.

"Combination sedative and nutrients," Bobby says behind him. "Insurance policy. They won't be waking up until we're ready."

"But how will we know we're ready?"

"We just will, Sam."

"But-"

"Boy, they're not waking up. I'm not having two more soulless bastards walking around my house, y'hear? The last one tried to _kill_ me."

Sam flinches. He'd known they weren't quite beyond this, but it still hurts. A lot.

Whatever Death had done, Sam can remember only the most recent events of his actions without the soul, and even then, it comes to him through a stilted, black-and-white filter. It's like carding through a list of cold facts-Bobby and Cas are alive (he never did learn how), Samuel is back from the dead, there's war in Heaven and something weird going on with the supernatural of society, Crowley had been looking for Purgatory, then Cas killed him, and Sam had let Dean get turned into a-_fuck_.

Sam tries to breathe normally. His last clear memory that doesn't feel like it's been doused in ash is as he'd fallen into the pit.

And now he's tired, tired all the time. He hadn't known how much he'd needed rest until it was back again, and how emotionally dead he'd been until the floodgates tore open. Somewhere in the back of his mind, over a century of relentless torture waits for his acknowledgement. Sam shivers from a lingering sense of _cold_ that has nothing to do with the temperature inside the panic room, his arms coming up to shield himself from that mental block. Death's voice rumbles into his mind again, chiding gently-_Don't scratch at it, Sam. Leave the wall alone._

Bobby's hand is heavy on his shoulder. Sam looks into the other hunter's eyes, noting the age lines creased in his face, and specks of gray in his hair. Sam suddenly feels awful for all the pain he's caused this man. For the pain he's caused _Dean_, too-

"Son, whatever you're thinking, stop it."

Sam shivers again, though he tries his best to hide it, forcing his arms back down to his sides as he resists the urge to hug himself in a pitiful display of hopelessness. "I'm fine, Bobby-"

"Bullshit," Bobby says, and Sam knows he's right, so it's pointless to deny it. Bobby huffs a frustrated sigh. "Sam, we've got work to do. You know how I love to talk about our feelings, but shit's hit the fan, and I'd like to hold off any man-crying until later. You gonna be okay until then?"

Cas is wearing a floral blue hospital grown. In the dim lighting of the panic room, he seems so very pale. Fragile. It's one the most disturbing things Sam's ever seen in his life, and he can't seem to look away from it.

Somewhere in Hell, both Jimmy and Cas are suffering horrible torments, and now Dean is down there too, by his own volition. What's worse, Sam's pretty sure this is all somehow his fault as well, and that kills him. He'd jumped into the pit as a hero, and came out the villain. It's like Ruby all over again. He just can't win.

"Sam..."

"I heard you, Bobby." But his voice trembles slightly, and it's getting harder to shove all this guilt back down his gullet. "What are we gonna do?"

"Well, first, we're looking for warding sigils against angels. Amelia's on that, but you might be more help-did Cas ever show you anything like that?"

It's like thinking through a fog. Dimly, Sam shakes his head, but he's pretty sure Cas did at some point or another. Why wouldn't he? He just can't be bothered to remember.

Bobby nods to himself. "Well, between the Armageddon squad and Balthazar's random interference, we don't want any more surprises. We'll... figure the rest out when we get that far."

"Okay," Sam says, clearly not paying attention.

Bobby casts him a worried look. "You shouldn't stay down here. I'd like your help upstairs-"

"No, they shouldn't be alone." Dean and Cas are helpless like this, and too many supernatural creatures want them dead. All the warding symbols and salt in the world can't prevent fate from taking a dump on their collective faces all over again, and Sam's tired of tempting fate when he doesn't have to. "I'll watch them," he says.

"Sam-"

For the first time since waking up, the steel is back in Sam's voice. He's sick and tired in more ways than one. "Bobby, I'm not leaving them."

The older hunter opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it again when a commotion is heard upstairs. They both leave the panic room at once, shutting and locking behind them, their first thought for the safety of the two men still vulnerable inside it.

Amelia's fists bang on the basement door, and her voice is panicked. "We have a visitor!"

They both turn towards the stairs when the basement door is blown open, bits of wood splintering off as the lock is ripped from the jamb and the door sent slamming into the wall, rattling on its hinges. A strange wind picks up, swirling around the figure in the doorway, who is silhouetted by the light from the kitchen.

The figure slowly walks down the steps, and she becomes more visible. It's a woman-tall, dark, her eyes black as coal, and the expression on her face could melt stone. Beside him, Bobby grits his teeth and scans for any kind of weapon.

"I am Sachiel of the thirteenth garrison. What have you done to my brother?"


End file.
